tion I had with Mary Ann one night.’’
I couldn’t believe it! Why hadn’t he said anything to me before? The answer, of course, was obvious: Why hadn’t I asked?
‘‘See, family really matters to Mary Ann,’’ Peter contin
ued. ‘‘And she used to talk a lot about how sad it was that Meredith refused to patch things up with Eric. But this one particular time she went on to say how Meredith’s will left everything to her, and if she—Mary Ann—died first, then the money would all go to this AIDS foundation. She felt pretty terrible about that.’’
‘‘At least Meredith picked a good cause,’’ I remarked.
‘‘That was because of her husband.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘I told you he was a drug addict, right?’’
‘‘I think so. Someone did, anyway.’’
‘‘And that he died of AIDS?’’
‘‘No, you never mentioned that,’’ I answered, not yet realizing the significance of Peter’s words. ‘‘I was under the impression he’d died of a brain tumor. That’s what Eric Foster said.’’
‘‘Meredith asked Mary Ann to tell him that. She didn’t want people to know about the AIDS—Eric especially, I guess.’’
I started to say something—I’m not even sure what it was—and then it hit me. ‘‘Oh, my God,’’ I murmured.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Meredith . . . she wasn’t . . . she didn’t have AIDS, did she?’’
‘‘Mary Ann told me she tested negative,’’ Peter answered
a little uncertainly.
‘‘Didn’t you believe her?’’
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‘‘Of course I did.’’
‘‘But?’’
‘‘But, well, they say it could take a long time for anything to show up in the tests. So who knows if she was really out of the woods yet?’’
Chapter 29
He didn’t say so, but I had the strong impression that Peter was relieved to finally unburden himself to someone. And having broken his silence, he seemed almost anxious to get to the precinct now, too. After all, it would almost certainly lead to the lifting of his hospital ban.
Rejecting my offer to accompany him, Peter called the station to make sure Fielding was in. Then we talked for a few minutes about just how much he’d tell the police. We agreed there was no reason to divulge any more about his whereabouts that night than they needed to know—which was that he’d been in this Frankie’s apartment at the time of the shootings. And, if pressed on his refusal to disclose the information earlier (as we were both certain he would be), he intended to say there were personal reasons. Which, no doubt, would provide a little food for Walter Corcoran’s dirty little thoughts.
A couple of minutes after Peter left, I graciously decided to forgive Ellen for doing my job better than I did. ‘‘You were right,’’ I told her when I reached her on the phone. She was so thrilled you would have thought I’d done some
thing for her.
When our brief conversation was finished, I got busy making some notes, and then I spent a long time mulling over them.
At four o’clock, I headed for the Berkeley Theater—and
a talk with Larry Shields.
The director was up onstage working with a few of the cast members when I walked in. He spotted me before I was even halfway up the aisle, acknowledging my presence just long enough to shout, ‘‘We’re in the middle of a re
hearsal here!’’
I approached the stage anyway.
When he looked over at me this time, he held up his
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hand to the others for quiet and came toward the footlights.
‘‘What is it you want now?’’ he called down, scowling.
‘‘I just learned something you might be interested in hearing about.’’
He thought for a moment, then said brusquely, ‘‘All right, but I can’t talk to you today. Come by tomorrow—
say, seven-thirty.’’
‘‘In the evening?’’ I asked hopefully.
‘‘A.M. Is that a problem?’’
‘‘No, no. No problem at all.’’ What the hell, there were some things that took precedence over sleep.
Shields was just opening the door to the theater when I got there.
‘‘How about letting me buy you breakfast?’’ I offered.
‘‘No, thanks,’’ he said curtly.
As soon as we were seated in his office, I learned the answer to at least one thing that had been puzzling me: why he’d been so hostile to me recently. (Just thinking about last week’s phone conversation with him was enough
to give me frostbite.) And the thing is, I didn’t even have to ask.
‘‘Did you know,’’ he demanded, ‘‘that with the help of one of the doctors at St. Catherine’s, I had finally per
suaded the police to let me into that hospital room?’’
‘‘No, I didn’t.’’
‘‘Really? I’m surprised,’’ he remarked archly. ‘‘Before I ever made it there, though, they’d changed their minds. It seems someone told Sergeant Fielding this story about Merry and me having some kind of argument. Now, I heard
somewhere that you and Fielding are pretty good buddies. It wouldn’t have been you who repeated that stupid story, would it?’’
I could feel my face growing warm, and I was praying I wouldn’t give myself away with one of those awful flushes of mine at the same time that I was certain I was already doing just that. I tried sidestepping the question anyway.
‘‘Why would I do a thing like that?’’ I said, not meeting his eyes.
‘‘Why don’t you tell me. It happens to be a damned lie, you know.’’
‘‘I don’t think so,’’ I responded in this calm, soft voice.
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‘‘Look, I just found out that Meredith’s husband died of AIDS.’’
Now it was Shields who flushed deeply. He didn’t say anything for quite a while, just stared straight ahead, and I sat there uneasily, fidgeting with my shoulder bag, while I waited for his response.
‘‘Who told you?’’ he murmured at last.
‘‘That’s not really important, is it?’’
‘‘No,’’ he answered sadly.
‘‘You were furious, weren’t you, because Meredith didn’t
tell you about the AIDS? Before you became intimately involved, I mean.’’
‘‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. But only at first.’’
‘‘What changed your mind?’’
‘‘Well, for one thing, it wasn’t as though Merry was HIV
positive; she wasn’t. And she swore to me—and I believe her—that she and Garibaldi, her husband, stopped having marital relations in October of 1990, when he was diag
nosed with the disease. Merry and I didn’t begin seeing each other until November ’91—sometime around the mid
dle of November, it was. Which means that according to her best information—according to anyone’s best informa
tion—there was no longer any question of her being a car
rier. If you test HIV negative for a year after you’ve been exposed to the disease, you’re not at risk anymore.’’
‘‘But that was cutting it awfully close, wasn’t it?’’
‘‘Not really. A year is the outside limit. But still, I felt I was at least entitled to know about a thing like that. Once I’d cooled off a little, though, I tried putting myself in Mer
ry’s shoes. She’d been given a clean bill of health before we even met, so it wasn’t as though there was a danger of her infecting me. And then I wondered what I would have done if the situation had been reversed. I like to think I would have said something to her before we became lovers, but who really knows what they’ll do until they’re there?
Merry’s one of the most f
orthright people I’ve ever met; she’s strong, too. If she found it so hard to talk about, what makes me think I’d be any different?’’ And then Shields smiled, and I saw again what made him so attractive to women. ‘‘But, hell,’’ he confided, ‘‘the big reason, the over
riding reason we got back together is because I loved her. And I still do.’’
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‘‘Well, I guess I understand now why you tried to keep the argument quiet.’’
‘‘It’s Merry’s secret,’’ Shields said, confirming my thoughts. ‘‘It’s up to her once she regains her memory whether or not she wants to tell anybody. But as long as it’s all come out, at least I’ll be able to start going to the hospital. This doctor I mentioned before? Just yesterday he was saying how—if it is Merry lying there—seeing me could help jog her memory.’’
‘‘That could be. But I’m afraid the police might still have some qualms about letting you visit her.’’
‘‘What now?’’ he asked tersely.
‘‘They might feel there’s a chance—a very outside chance—that you only pretended to reconcile with Mere
dith to avoid suspicion later on.’’
‘‘If I could plot things out like that,’’ Shields shot back angrily, I wouldn’t be a director; I’d be a playwright. Or a goddamned P.I.’’
That little talk had certainly produced a few answers. And a few more questions, too.
Would a man like Larry Shields really murder his lover for not leveling with him about her husband’s AIDS—even
though he was apparently in no danger? Well, all I could say—and with zero conviction—was that it was possible. And then I got this idea that made it a whole lot more possible.
Who knew for a fact when Meredith had last had rela
tions with her husband? Maybe Shields suspected her of lying to him about that. Or maybe Shields was lying to me. For that matter, maybe he’d already had himself tested for AIDS—and learned he was HIV positive!
Wait a minute. . . .
Maybe I should be looking at the same kind of ‘‘maybes’’
with regard to Lucille Collins, too.
Let’s say Collins hoped to get back with her ex-boyfriend eventually (the safest bet on the boards). Okay, then just imagine how she might have felt if she thought there was even a remote chance that Meredith—who had appro
priated Shields from her in the first place—had now ex
posed him to AIDS!
You know, I can think of a lot shabbier reasons for com
mitting murder.
Chapter 30
‘‘Hi, Dez. I was just going to try you, ’’ Fielding said civilly when I called him from the office that morning. He re
minded me a lot of the Tim Fielding I used to know.
‘‘Really? What’s up?’’ I asked cautiously.
‘‘For one thing, we checked out the kid’s alibi, and the woman confirms he was with her the night of the shootings
from sometime after six until almost nine-thirty.’’
‘‘You’ll let him back into the hospital room now, of course.’’
‘‘He’s probably there right this minute. Listen, the real reason I wanted to talk to you is to apologize. I don’t know what the hell got into me last week; my wife even threat
ened to chop me up and stuff me down the garbage disposal.’’
‘‘The case is a bitch.’’
‘‘You can say that again. But it’s still no excuse. Anyhow, I’m really sorry, and I owe you a nice lunch—that is, if you can stand sitting across the table from me.’’
‘‘That depends on where you plan on taking me.’’
Fielding laughed and said that maybe we could make it the end of the week.
Since he was feeling so remorseful, it was a pretty good time to pump him a little. ‘‘Listen, Tim, did Peter tell you about Charlotte Bromley?’’
‘‘You mean about her being a jewelry designer?’’ He laughed again. ‘‘We already knew all about that. That friend of the twins’ who lives in their building—Josephs—
happened to mention it weeks ago.’’
‘‘Where did the ring suddenly come from after all this time, anyway?’’
‘‘I have your word you won’t repeat this?’’
‘‘Of course.’’
‘‘Okay. It seems the survivor had the ring on when they
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brought her into the recovery room that night. But look, we think it’s advisable that no one knows which of the women was wearing it,’’ he cautioned, waiting until I mur
mured my agreement before continuing. ‘‘At any rate, one of the nurses who was on duty noticed it and took it off the girl’s finger to put in a drawer for safekeeping. But when she looked for it the next day, it was gone. Well, this nurse was new there, and apparently she felt a little responsible and didn’t want to get into any trouble. Also, the ring didn’t look particularly valuable—not like a dia
mond or anything—and, of course, she had no idea it could be important to us. So anyhow, she decided not to say anything about it.
‘‘But then last week, she went to take something else out of that same drawer, and there was the ring; it had gotten wedged all the way in the back. This time, she took it in to her supervisor and told her the whole story, and the supervisor turned it over to us.’’
‘‘The ring, it was an amethyst I think Peter said.’’ When you’re dealing with Peter it never hurts to check things out.
‘‘Amethysts are a purplish color?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Then it’s an amethyst.’’
‘‘I think there’s a good chance Bromley’ll know who it belongs to, don’t you?’’
‘‘That’s what I’m hoping. So far, nobody else is too sure. At any rate, Bromley’s due back next week, so we’ll find out soon.’’
After Fielding and I had exchanged cordial good-byes—
for a change—I spent about a half hour paying some bills. And then I just sat at my desk thinking. And what I thought was that it might be a nice gesture to forgive myself for all the ways I’d screwed up in the investigation so far. Okay, I conceded, so I’d made some mistakes. But it was only my second murder case. If I ever decided to take one on again—which I considered highly doubtful—I was sure to be a lot better at it. (But then, I almost had to be, didn’t I?) Besides, I didn’t see where Fielding, for all his experience, was doing such a hot job, either. He’d made the same assumption I had about the twins’ money, hadn’t he? Unless he was just letting me think that. Nah! If he—
It was right in the middle of this silent soliloquy that
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Jackie buzzed me. ‘‘Stuart Mason’s out at reception,’’ she informed me.
Now, that was a pleasant surprise! Stuart had practically been in hibernation since the beginning of tax season. I’d only spoken to him a couple of times since he took those few hours off for his birthday dinner—and then very briefly. I really didn’t think I’d be setting eyes on him before May.
‘‘I was with a client right across the street,’’ he explained when I walked out to greet him, ‘‘and I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were free for a quick lunch.’’
Lunch turned out to be not quick at all. We went to HSF—a Chinese restaurant not too far from my office that serves the most fantastic dim sum—and stuffed ourselves silly on an almost endless parade of little delicacies. All the while, we chatted incessantly, the way good friends who haven’t talked to each other recently are likely to do. Stuart immediately wanted to know if I’d made any prog
ress with the case yet.
‘‘Some,’’ I said, ‘‘but I’m still a long way from solving it.’’ For the briefest of moments, I thought about telling him how right he’d been in advising me to check Peter’s alibi. But then I realized I’d prefer being
torn apart by wild animals to admitting something like that. I mean, Ellen’s showing me up was one thing. But enough was definitely enough. ‘‘You look tired,’’ I remarked instead.
‘‘At this point, I’m too numb to be tired. You don’t ex
actly look like you’re full of energy yourself.’’
‘‘What I am is frustrated. There’s probably something I know that I don’t know I know. If you follow me.’’
‘‘I’m afraid I do,’’ he told me, grinning, ‘‘and it’s wor
rying the hell out of me.’’ Then he made the same sugges
tion he’d made that other time I was wrestling with a murder case. ‘‘Why don’t you get away for a little while?
My brother and sister-in-law still have that cabin upstate, and they never go there this time of year. I’m sure they’d be glad to let you use the place for a few days or a week—
as long as you like. Just so you’re out of there by July,’’
he joked. ‘‘Seriously, it would clear your head, give you a fresh perspective.’’
‘‘Thanks, but it wouldn’t do any good right now.’’ He started to protest, but he didn’t get the words out fast enough. ‘‘Honestly, Stuart,’’ I put in quickly, ‘‘I wouldn’t
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be able to leave it behind me.’’ And then, before I could stop myself—and knowing I was turning as red as my glori
ously hennaed hair—I said, ‘‘Why don’t we wait till my case and the tax season are both over, so you can come up there with me?’’
Stuart knew just what I was suggesting—you didn’t ex
actly have to be a Rhodes scholar—and he looked at me levelly. ‘‘I’d like that, Dez; I really would.’’
Since we were headed in opposite directions, I left Stuart at the restaurant and started to walk back to the office. I’d gone just a couple of blocks when it started to rain. (The WNBC forecast that morning had been for sunny skies all day, so I really shouldn’t have been surprised.)
Now, while I didn’t have far to go, I also didn’t have an umbrella, and it was coming down pretty hard. I checked out Second Avenue. There wasn’t an empty cab to be seen,
so I cut over to Third. No hope for a taxi here, either. But what there was, was a video store. And I’m not so dumb that I don’t know enough to come in out of the rain. Well, as long as I was there, I decided that it might not be a bad idea to rent a movie for the night. I went to the section marked DRAMA. A good oldie would be nice. I spot
Murder Can Ruin Your Looks Page 23
